


uprising.

by dizzymisslizzie



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Other, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Tevinter, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 06:55:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4294935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzymisslizzie/pseuds/dizzymisslizzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"and death shall have no dominion.<br/>dead man naked they shall be one<br/>with the man in the wind and the west moon;<br/>when their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,<br/>they shall have stars at elbow and foot;<br/>though they go mad they shall be sane,<br/>though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;<br/>though lovers be lost love shall not;<br/>and death shall have no dominion." - dylan thomas | and death shall have no dominion</p><p>this is a story of revolution. there is a new wind blowing in the imperium -- it whispers of change. see: two leaders, one mercenary, a champion of tevinter, and an elf. this is a story of how the world went to pieces for the fourth time.  (dragon age original work set in the tevinter imperium after the events of dragon age: inquisition.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	uprising.

It's well before dawn when the rabble begins. An alarming thing for some, but to the people of Seheron, war and its intricacies are at best an unavoidable fact of life. As the sun rises and sets, so do the tempers of both Qunari and Imperium forces, and neither nation has been known to suffer their grievances quietly. It always begins in the same way. An offhanded remark cast under one's breath, whispered behind one's back. There is nothing more dangerous than wounded pride. Pride of a nation, pride of self, pride for the sake of pride -- it matters little to the one who strikes back or the handful of men who jump to his justification.

It isn't just _Orlesians_ who play their precious game for blood.

 

* * *

 

 

"Maakah, get up."

She feels a shuffling and a tug as someone tears the sheets from her bedroll. Groggy and less than eager, she turns over to capture it mid-air, pulling it forcefully to her chest in innocent defiance.

"It's not even light out," Maakah protests, eyes cracked open just enough to see the glow of candlelight illuminating the slave's quarters. "Piss off, Netta."

"I mean it, da'len," the aging elf presses, removing the comfort of roughspun sheets with one last, swift movement. "Get up, and put your clothes on. We have to go. Now."

"Mm. Five more minutes."

" _Da'len_."

The name had a way of stirring both love and fear in Maakah's heart. It was a double-edged blade - soft and affectionate when it suited Netta's needs, but capable of dredging up the most miserable kinds of guilt when it suited her. It wasn't for that guilt, she'd go on sleeping without a care.

The morning air is stagnant but no less chilling. She shivers in her small clothes with her soles flat on the cold stone floor and tries to ignore the gooseflesh rising on her arms.

"Here," Netta says, and before she can respond, she's forcing her arms up and shoving a woolen dress over her kinswoman's head as if handling a child. Maakah yelps with surprise but knows better than to struggle, even when wrinkled hands pass over healing wounds with a less than gentle touch.

"Creators, Netta. I can dress myself, you know."

"And yet you stand there like a daft little girl, so I took matters into my own hands. If you want something done the _right_ way, child --"

The old woman's brow furrows, distorting the fading vallaslin that marks her leathered skin. What beauty she might have had was taken from her by hard work in the Seheron sun. What hair might have been silken falls now in wiry white braids gathered at the nape of her neck. What eyes might have gleamed with life now tell of little but sorrows. What hands might have loved tenderly were now aged and worn, blistered to bleeding too many a time to count. The last of her clan, the once-keeper was now gnarled as an old willow tree - and still, she refuses to bow.

"Shoes, Maakah."

"Will you at least tell me where we're going, for the love of --"

The door swings open, and silence chokes any warmth from Maakah's body. Immediately, she falls prostrate on the floor, eyes never daring to glimpse more than the hem of Magister Cassius's crimson robes and the toe of his pointed boots, tipped in steel and a danger all their own. Her heart pounds dangerously in her chest. His is a shadow to blot out the sun.

"My lord." Her words are breathless. Her master owns the air in her lungs. "You -- you grace us with your presence."

"I haven't the time for formalities, slave," Cassius says coolly. "Get to your feet. We've a long journey ahead of us. I won't abide your sloth."

"What journey?" Maakah jolts to her feet, taut as a bowstring. Netta pleads silently with the Gods for her to see temperance, to sweeten her sharp tongue. "You mean to say we're leaving the city?"

"We're leaving the _country_. A ship will be arriving to ... transfer my state to the city of Minrathous by midday."

Invisible needles prick her skin apart, leaving her raw and exposed to the words she tries to swallow. To leave Seheron would be to leave everything she knows -- her life is echoed in the stone walls of the city. The caress of the sun through her barred window is more familiar than a mother's embrace. Seheron is not beautiful. Seheron is not kind, but Seheron is her home all the same.

There are few words so dangerous for a slave as no, but unwarranted, she shouts it, despserately. Her plea sounds as a command, and without second thought, her master strikes her face with the back of his hand as casually as one might reach for a cup of wine.

"You will do as you are told, slave. I'm doing you a favor." That same hand cradles her aching cheek with a gentleness that stirs a sick sweetness in the pit of her stomach. "You're afraid. I understand. But fear cannot rule over you. You must _trust_ in me."

 _Fear cannot rule over you,_ Maakah echoes silently. She'd sooner trust a cutpurse than her magister. As she follows Cassius through the sprawling estate, she tries not to linger too long on Netta's expression. It reeks of disappointment. 

Strange, how she can lecture without saying a word.

Hollow faces surround her, slaves from every corner to suit the magister's needs. She recognizes some -- Petra, the cook's daughter, with her pretty lips. It's well known how she sneaks into the master bedroom on cold nights, but never a word is said of it. _Tits like a doll_ , she'd heard a servant once say over a bucket of dishwater. _Good thing for her. Ain't no use for much else. Can't cook or clean, can't mend clothes. It's all-right for us, I says. The master gets a warm bed and a good fuck. Keeps him amiable for the rest of us, yeah? What's good for him is good for us, I says. I'm just glad I ain't the one rolling his oats for the lot of us. You think he uses magic when he --?_

She'd stopped listening after that. Even if it was truth, idle gossip never interested her. It's bad enough to be herded with this handful of slaves out onto the estate grounds like cattle -- it's bad enough to feel the brand scarred on the back of her neck beneath tendrils of wiry black curls. Her feet ache on the cobblestone, and she realizes in her rush, she'd forgotten her shoes.

Maakah draws a deep breath. The air tastes of perfume, and blackpowder.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! this is an adventure, and i hope you all enjoy this crazy ride as much as i do. much credit to my amazing partner madi and her never-ending support of my insanity. (and if you haven't checked out her dragon age asoiaf au fic at vasnormandy yet, you're totally missing out.)
> 
> please comment below! i'd love to hear your thoughts.


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